


_ _ _ _locked

by thegirlinthedeathfrisbee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Bondage, Drabbles, Drinking, Established Relationship, Fancy Dress, Fluff, Friendship, Hugs, Kisses, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Riding Crop, Scars, Science Experiments, Smut, Storms, Thunder - Freeform, Unilock, Unresolved Sexual Tension, texts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:10:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 15,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlinthedeathfrisbee/pseuds/thegirlinthedeathfrisbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnlock in every sense of the name.</p><p>This is basically just a slew of drabbles I've been writing elsewhere, compiled and placed on AO3. The blog I once updated with these drabbles is being deleted, and so I'm giving them a new home--and a new place to start writing these.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hug

**Author's Note:**

> I'M REALLY VERY SORRY IF YOU'RE READING THIS AFTER GETTING THE NOTIFICATIONS ON IT.   
> I SHOULD REALLY LOOK INTO HOW A SYSTEM WORKS BEFORE GOING AND DOING SOMETHING LIKE THAT.
> 
> In all honesty, I was just dumping the previous drabbles here--so I may have the collection on hand. So sorry!

John has seen Sherlock on many a case. From the strangest to the goriest to the most meticulous, John has accompanied him through thick and thin. The one thing John can always count on, though, is that Sherlock will remain unaffected. He will look upon a corpse in studious concentration. The details of the murder will never turn his stomach. He is, it seems, forever divorced from such.

Except for that one time. Just the once, so far. 

John is seated on the couch, his legs sprawled lazily across the cushions. He’s got a book propped in his lap. His head is resting against his fist, propped by his elbow upon the back of the couch. Sherlock is… out. John is unsure where he’s gone off to, but he insisted John would be unnecessary and so John stayed.

Sherlock comes into the flat in a blur of billowing coat and quickly spoken words. At least, John assumes they’re words. They could be numbers, could be some form of spoken hieroglyphics for all he knows. But Sherlock is spewing them, and his voice—normally quite even and nearly soothing—is verging on manic, cracks and coughs sputtering from him. 

John’s eyebrows furrow. He thinks to ask what’s wrong, what’s happened. He wants to know what’s gotten Sherlock Holmes into such a frenzy, but he doesn’t get the opportunity. Sherlock whips off his coat and stalks toward John, determination set in his eyes and his jaw.

In one swift motion, he apprehends John’s book, shuts it with a single motion, and flops into John’s lap. He curls himself as small as he possibly can, drawing his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around them. He leans into John’s side, into the crook of his arm, and lays his head against John’s shoulder.

John is baffled. Completely. Sherlock is shaken and his mouth is shut and he looks quite panicked and frail, for the first time since John has met him. So John does the only thing he can think to do. He raises his head and slips both arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, squeezing him harder into his body. 

And somehow, he realizes, this is exactly what Sherlock had wanted. He drops his legs and his breathing slows, and John can feel the long, slender arm wiggle its way behind him, in what appears to be a return hug. 

John doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t find it necessary. It seems Sherlock does neither. So instead, they sit upon the couch in a hug. One that, John has realized, is very, very much needed.


	2. They kiss

Their first kiss isn’t passion filled. It isn’t a rush of adrenaline, it doesn’t end in them naked and sweating. That won’t come until much later, until they have that discussion. You know, the one that no stereotypical male wants to have? The one they tend to put off until absolutely necessary? It’ll come eventually, but it won’t be that day. Because that day, they simply kiss.

It’s over coffee. Of course it’s over coffee, why wouldn’t it be? John is making coffee, because Sherlock is decidedly much too lazy for such. John is making coffee, and he’s stirring in the two sugars that Sherlock takes in his. He’s half awake, having slept for just a little over two hours, and he’s remembering that Sherlock does not take milk in his coffee. Black, two sugars. Right. He doesn’t take any sugar in his own, nor does he take milk, so coffee is easy. 

He makes to grumble for Sherlock to come retrieve his coffee, but he can’t make much sense of words. Mornings are not the best time for John, by any stretch. Once he’s had his coffee and a shower, he’s right as rain. But up until that moment, he may as well be a caveman. 

Sherlock is no better, really. In fact, he may be worse. His scowl is set permanently, his hair is puffed with sleep. He’s perched upon the arm of his chair, for whatever reason, and he’s grumbling beneath his breath. 

John meanders toward him, feet shuffling along the floor, and Sherlock’s coffee is in his hand. He’s got his own as well, but he’s on a mission to deliver Sherlock’s. So he steps right in front of him, taking a page from Sherlock’s own book and leaving personal space behind. “Coffee,” he grunts, and he extends the cup into Sherlock’s chest.

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbles.

And that’s when it happens. Neither know what or how or why. But John places Sherlock’s coffee right into his chest, and they both lean in and suddenly their lips meet. And it _is_  a kiss. It’s not just a brush of lips, an accident while bending over or something equally silly. It’s a kiss, an intentional one, as though they do so every morning.

What’s even better, they think now upon looking back, is that neither said a word about it.

John sat down in his chair and flipped open the newspaper. Sherlock slumped into his own and grabbed up his phone. And the day went on as though nothing new had happened, as though they hadn’t just shattered whatever illusion of “just friends” they’d still had, as though their entire worlds hadn’t just been flipped over.

They kissed, and that was that. And that would be that for a rather long time to come. 


	3. You Had Your Chance

Sherlock Holmes does not allow his heart to be broken.

Sherlock Holmes’ heart goes near no human hands. Not literally nor figuratively. Sherlock does not fall in love, or lust. He does not allow himself to become another poor sap, some mindless fool. Falling in love, handing over one’s metaphoric heart, is a sign of weakness. It is entrusting your livelihood in someone else’s palms. Sherlock Holmes would never do such a silly thing. No one would get that close, no one would have that power.

He reminds himself of this as he sits in the chair.

He’s all but lost his train of thought up until that moment: “You may now kiss the bride.”

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth to watch John Watson lean into the blonde woman’s puckered lips. No, she’s not just the blonde woman anymore. No longer just the librarian, just the girlfriend. No longer just Mary Morstan. She is now Mary Watson. Sherlock’s jaw clenches. It shouldn’t clench, but it does. He doesn’t like the sound, doesn’t like the taste. It’s like battery acid, corrosive and vile. But he claps along with the rest of the crowd (mostly Mary’s family and friends. John has little.) 

John doesn’t know that Sherlock has ulterior motives for his appearance. At first, Sherlock had intended to not show up. But he did, and there he sat, somewhere near the middle, applauding with the rest of them.

The reception is where Sherlock manages to apprehend John. The cake has been cut, the first dance has been had, the bride (wife) is mingling with family. And John stands alone. So Sherlock nabs him by the wrist and drags him from the party, determination set in his mind.

And in typical John fashion, he simply follows.

There is a mild string of reproach from John. A “What are you doing?” and “Where are we going?” and “What’s going on?”, but it dies down in the silence of their surroundings.

“Sherlock, what’s—”

That’s as far as John gets once the door closes behind them. Because then, Sherlock is pressing him against the nearest wall. He’s mussing John’s groomed hair with his hands and he’s practically bruising John’s now-married lips with his own. John tastes of champagne and white cake and frosting and just a hint of lipstick, and Sherlock catalogs each of these tastes accordingly. He needs John to know, desperately needs him to understand.

Sherlock is doing what Sherlock never does.

He’s holding out his heart, red and bleeding and thumping, and he’s offering it to John.

John isn’t resisting. In fact, Sherlock can feel him enjoying it. Enjoying their kiss, their first. He’s slipping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and he’s pressing him in closer, gripping into his clothing. His tongue is sliding against Sherlock’s and his breathing is erratic, and it’s just as Sherlock had imagined. Well, it’s one of the ways Sherlock imagined. The best way, the way he had desired. And that pushes him further, eggs him on. 

But then something shifts, something changes.

John backs his head away. His face is pulled in pure distress, and suddenly he’s ogling Sherlock is pure confusion. “What are you doing?” he asks.

Sherlock pulls away, but his hands are resting at John’s cheeks. “Kissing you. Obvious.” 

“No, Sherlock. What are you  _doing?_ ” John asks. He pulls Sherlock’s hands from his cheeks and moves from the wall, shaking his head. He is distressed. He’s not happy. His lips are slightly pinker from Sherlock’s and his face is flushing, but he’s definitely displeased. “John,” Sherlock begins, but John cuts him off.

“How much time?” he asks, “How long had I—had we—” he cuts off, sighing. He shakes his head, exasperation in every movement. “What are you thinking, Sherlock? Why now? Why right at this moment? You could’ve… you could’ve had me long ago. Why now?” He’s venting. Sherlock doesn’t have an answer. Not a suitable one.  _I was a coward_  doesn’t seem acceptable. John sighs, presses his index finger and thumb into the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m  _married_  now Sherlock. Just so. You _watched_.” 

“I—”

“No, Sherlock,” He shakes his head. His jaw is clenched, his body is tensed. Sherlock knows where this is going. “You had your chance.” John says finally, “And you didn’t take it. And now it’s gone.” He shrugs his shoulders, and that’s that. He doesn’t give any other words. He simply opens the door and leaves, back to his party, to his wedding, to his wife, to his new life.

Sherlock Holmes does not allow his heart to be broken.

But just this once, Sherlock Holmes cannot help it.


	4. "Too Close" is Close Enough

Another single bed. 

It’s how it always seems to be. They ask for rooms with two beds, and they never get them. Those rooms are always booked up, are always unavailable, always seem to have housed an entire circus just before their arrival. 

So it’s a single bed. Queen sized, sure, but still just the one.

“I don’t sleep.” Sherlock argues. It’s the same argument he always uses. “I can’t sleep. I have to think.” 

John rolls his eyes in that typical way. Sherlock is redundant. “I’m aware, but you’re  _about_  to fall asleep sitting in that chair.” he replies, watching as Sherlock’s eyes droop slowly shut. He snaps them open and looks around the room as though there might be something new to see. John rolls his eyes again. 

“I’m not going to fall asleep. I’m going to sit here and think.” Sherlock protests. Whines. It sounds more like a whine. Like the whine of a child who’s begging to stay up just a little longer. John shakes his head and pulls back the sheets. “Look, you’re going to need to sleep. If you don’t, you’ll start drifting off somewhere more important.”

“I’m not—”

“Humor me. Just this once. Lie down, and sleep.”

There is a silence that hovers momentarily over the room before Sherlock speaks once again. “And you?”

John nods to the chair Sherlock is currently perched in. Sherlock frowns, glancing down to the arms before looking back to John. He shakes his head, unfolding himself and standing. “Nonsense. That chair’s horrendous. You’ll be of little use with your body stiffened from a night spent in some god awful chair where there’s a perfectly sound bed.” Sherlock pulls back the bedclothes and slips beneath them. 

John stares. “Erm.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Surely you’re not protesting because we’d be sharing a bed.” he says with a huff. He looks to John, who is beginning to tint pink in the cheeks. Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “You’re not serious.” He says flatly. He sighs as he continues, “I’m unsure of you, but I am perfectly capable of sharing accommodations when necessary. I understand that you are a heterosexual man, and therefore the idea of lying with another man might—”

“There’s nothing wrong with—”

“Cause some form of alarm,” Sherlock barrels through John’s interruption, “If it will help ease your nerves, rest assure I have no intentions of doing more than  _humoring you_ and sleeping.”

“I didn’t think you would do anything—”

“Then what is the cause of alarm?”

Oh nothing. Not really. Not that John’s come to wonder what this might be like, lying beside Sherlock in bed. Not that he’s imagined, once or twice, brushing an errant curl from his forehead, or touching his cheeks, or pressing a sleepy kiss to his lips. Nothing John can’t tamp down and shove off, of course. He shakes his head and takes a deep breath, pulling back the bedclothes on his side and flopping into the bed.

Both of them lie down at precisely the exact moment, and Sherlock shuts out the light.

John doesn’t remember the bed being quite that small. John can’t seem to recall it being tiny enough that his arm is pressed against Sherlock’s, or that he can feel his hip against his, or that their legs are touching. It didn’t seem that small, but apparently it is. Sherlock flops over onto his stomach and his face is away from John, and John is grateful for that. Because John is probably blushing as he feels Sherlock’s bum hit his hip, as his leg pokes out and crosses John’s side of the bed, over John’s leg. 

Too close, much too close.

John is tempted to throw his arm over Sherlock’s waist. He’s tempted to wrap himself around Sherlock’s lean frame, to nestle his face between his shoulder blades, to inhale deeply and memorize the single moment in which he could pretend they were something more. But he doesn’t. He just tries to get comfortable without disturbing Sherlock, who has obviously drifted right off to sleep.

And despite his urges, John feels… contented. Yes, contented. To be lying there, Sherlock against him and across him and sleeping soundly. It’s too close, much too close, but it seems—in this case—that “too close” may just be close enough.


	5. Experimenting

“Do you trust me?”

The voice vibrates in his ear, low and deep and resonating. John swallows. He’s blinded. No, not blinded. Blind-folded. His hands are tied behind his back, around the chair he’s been seated in. He can feel the warmth of the fireplace curling around his skin. Sherlock is stealthy when he walks around the room, and when John hears his voice just behind his left ear, it’s a surprise.

A welcome one though.

He nods. Yes, he does trust Sherlock. Even when blind-folded, even when tied, even when he cannot for the life of him recognize what Sherlock’s location in the room is. He can feel the draft of Sherlock’s body waft by, and so John knows he’s no longer behind him. 

Sherlock’s in front of him. He can recognize that. He can recognize  _that_  because Sherlock’s long, slender, nimble fingers are at the collar of his shirt. They’re taking the little white buttons and flipping them undone. John should be concerned, maybe, but the only thing he can do is squirm in anticipation. It’s not exactly the most seductive shirt-opening he’s ever had. In fact, it’s fairly clinical, strictly business. But the brush of Sherlock’s knuckles against his skin manage to cause each nerve-ending to jump in excitement. “You’re not to speak.” Sherlock commands as his fingers continue. “You’re not to ask questions of my location. And I will not heed any commands to discontinue. Know that it will be no more invasive than this.” At that, John feels the rest of his shirt open. He feels Sherlock spread his fingers over his skin. He feels him squeeze. “This is a study in touch, and nothing more. Nod if you consent.”

John nods. It may be slightly over-zealous. He can’t seem to care.

And then there’s nothing once again. There’s no touch, there’s no sound, there’s no body heat. John is left sitting. He opens his mouth to ask what’s happening, but a hand quickly claps over his mouth. “Rule number one.” John hears against his right ear. He nods and the hand slips away. 

The first sensation is cool and smooth. It’s small in size. Triangular in shape, perhaps. It starts at the hollow of his throat and moves downward, dragging down the line of his body. His back arches without his consent, pushes himself harder into the sensation. It’s nice.  _Oh_. It’s leather.

 _Oh_ , it’s the riding crop.

 _Oh, God_.

“Interesting,” Sherlock’s voice murmurs, low in his throat. He flicks the small leather patch upward, and it snaps against John’s nipple. John hisses in reply, lets the chill that has inched its way into his body to shiver down his spine. An interested hum sounds from Sherlock, and he matches the flicker to the other. John whimpers. This could be dangerous.

It continues much like that. Sherlock introduces a variety of different sensations, each seemingly more enticing than the last. And once he’s run out of props, John feels Sherlock’s fingertips brushing against him. And, it seems, in the very moment that John may lose all sense of himself, he feels Sherlock’s breath against his face. His fingertips creep down John’s sternum, and his lips are—John can feel—less than two inches from his face. 

John’s jaw clenches as Sherlock speaks. “You’re  _very_  susceptible to physical stimulus.” he murmurs. John’s feeling very overwhelmed in each sensation, except—of course—sight. He feels Sherlock’s knee up against his thigh as though he were placing all of his weight on it. He can smell the aftershave that Sherlock uses, can smell the wine on his breath. He can hear each breath, quiet and deliberate, slipping from Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s free hand slips around John’s wrist, fingertips pressed gently into his pulse. “Elevated,” he murmurs. “Breathing’s become slightly erratic. Obvious signs of  _lust_.” 

John releases a shuddering breath. He opens his mouth, as though to speak, but Sherlock silences him. He leans forward the extra one-and-a-half inches and their lips brush. But it isn’t a kiss. It’s a touch, a sliding of skin against skin. 

One that, in a single instant, drives John over the edge. 

He presses forward and seals their lips into a proper kiss, a real one, one that his body is  _physically_  aching for. He isn’t surprised to feel Sherlock flinch beneath his lips. He is surprised to find that, instead of backing away, Sherlock pushes forward. 

It is with fumbling hands and slippery lips does John finally get released from his experimental bounds. And it is with the same fumbling and slipping do they inevitably make their way onto the nearest soft surface that accommodates two. And, inevitably, Sherlock’s experiment is no longer just his own, but a combined exploration. 

And, as one can imagine, it does not remain a simple study in touch.


	6. The Sound of Settling

It’s the quiet shuffle of newspaper. It’s the gentle scraping sound of a knob turning. It’s throats clearing into silences and small talk about groceries. It’s at least a meter of distance between them when sitting, and speaking loudly enough that both may hear one another. 

These are the sounds of settling.

It could be more, if he felt so inclined. He could grab up his flatmate by the face and tell him just the way he’s come to feel for him. He could listen to his mind, in the way that he usually does, and let every impulsive thought come to fruition on his tongue. He could, and he might have. But he’s much more intelligent than that. 

Besides, what exactly would he say?

For once, there’s not a single sentence he can think of that would be convincing, would have the right tone, the right flow, the right beat. Because really, a love declaration should have those things. It should be romantic and charming and should cause a swell of undeniable emotion. But he’s got no patience to think up such words. They’d become tiresome, they’d start sounding silly and over-romanticized in his head and he’d lose the ability to speak them. 

He glances over, peering at the newspaper in John’s hands.

He could. He could get up right then and shove that newspaper down. He could explain that he’s done what he never thought possible, has allowed sentiment to creep back into his body, has—quite suddenly—fallen in what he thinks is very possibly love with John. He could say all these things and then kiss him. How would John react? 

Panic? No. He wouldn’t panic. Panic would assume he was clueless of the next action.

Dread? Perhaps. 

No, Sherlock knows what would happen. He’d get that soft look in his eyes that he gets. Sympathy. He’d feel sympathy for Sherlock, and he’d let him down “nice and easy,” but that wouldn’t matter because Sherlock would feel heart break for the first time in his life. And it’s a feeling he’d like to avoid at all costs. 

His jaw tightens around the thought. But what if he’d missed something? What if his feelings for John were reciprocated, and he’d sat here terrified of being rejected only to find he wouldn’t be, had he been courageous enough to speak? What if he spent years wondering what could’ve been? What if he turned into the exact people he tend to loathe, with their “unrequited” love causing dreadful bitterness?

Wasn’t he already bitter, just a little?

“John,.” he says suddenly. His mouth speaks without his brain confirming. He momentarily panics as the newspaper falls and John peers inquisitively at Sherlock. “Yeah?”

He could say it. He could say it right then. He could let the words on his tongue barrel past his mouth and maybe something would come of it. He could tell John “I love you,” and John could smile in that affectionate way he has and reply with “I love you, too.” And that could be that.

But he doesn’t, of course. He’s Sherlock. He doesn’t do this, not here, not now. He swallows around the words that threaten to strangle him and puts that mask back on. “Tea?” he asks. John’s lips turn down into a frown (unamused) and he sighs (weary) before standing (obligingly) and heads for the kitchen. 

It’s the shuffle of foot steps across the linoleum. It’s the flip of a kettle switch and the grumble of an annoyed flatmate. It’s the heart beat that’s thumping dreadfully loud in his ears, the one that he’s desperately attempting to calm. 

These are the sounds of settling.


	7. 7:03

He’s not so much walking up the stairs as crawling.

It’s early still. The sun is just setting over the London cityscape but he’s already lost track of the time. It’s not as though the time matters. Not that day, at any rate. He crawls up the stairs and lays before the flat. 

He stares up at the door, upside down and spinning. 

He’s drunk. It’s nearing seven in the evening and he’s already way past tipsy, far beyond ‘feeling alright’. He’s laying on the floor before the familiar door of 221B and he’s absolutely shit faced, completely smashed. The door is whirling and so is his stomach and, worse than that, so are his emotions.

It’s been six months. Six months to the day. He’d started drinking around the six months to the minute mark, and hadn’t stopped since until the barkeep found him too drunk to stand unassisted. Until he’d been poured into the cab. 

And when the cabbie asked for his home address, he instantly spouted that silly little flat in central London: “221B Baker Street.” 

It had been five months since he’d been there, and now he was laying on the floor and staring at the door. He was laying on the floor, staring at the door, and his emotions were strangling him, wrapping around his throat in an anaconda-like grip and turning him blue. He was drunk, far too drunk to be handling the sight of that stupid door. He knew if he opened it, there would be no change. Couldn’t get anyone to rent it out, Mrs. Hudson had said over the phone. “Like the address is cursed.” 

It may be. But it’s his curse. 

With a choke, he fumbles in his pocket and grabs out his phone. Blearily, he squints at the screen, managing to scroll through the few numbers he has listed until he reaches  _that_  one,  _that_  name. He gulps as he hits the green talk button and stares at the ceiling. It rings—once, twice, three times, and a fourth (just as he knew it would) before it finally hits the answer phone. 

His voice is smooth and business-esque, just as it always is. “You’ve reached Sherlock Holmes. I’m unable to talk your call at the present. If you’ve something interesting to say, please leave a message. If not, please hang up.”

John laughs. Not because the message is funny, not really. It’s just so typically  _Sherlock_. It always was. It still is. He waits for the tell-tale beep, and when he hears it, it’s something like the click of a free-fall. 

Even if you sit in anticipation of it, you’ll never expect the fall.

But that’s what happens the moment he hears the beep. He falls.

It’s 7:03 in the evening, he’s drunk, laying on the floor outside their flat, and tears are beginning to well in his eyes. “Erm.” he tells the machine. “I’m…” he trails off, licking his lips. He’s fighting down the lump as he stares at the ceiling. “I’m at 221B.” 

It’s enough to send him over the edge. “But you’re not.” he says, voice rough and tear stained. “And you should be.” His face is becoming wet. He’s staring at the ceiling and it’s spinning, and Sherlock’s voice is resonating in his head. “You should be here with me.” he says. He chokes, bringing his free hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose. His eyes close tight and a first sob racks its way through him. “I miss you.” he tells the machine. “Stop this. Stop this right now.” he demands. “Come home,” he slurs. “Please come home. Nothing is right. I miss you.” 

He’s begging. “Please come home. Please.”

He’s pleading. “For me, Sherlock. For me. Come back, for me.”

He’s weeping now, words tumbling over themselves in a rush to get out of his mouth. “I love you. I’m sorry I never said it. Come home.”

Another beep sounds. He’s out of time. The line drops dead and he sets the phone to the ground. He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes and tries to force the tears to recede, but it doesn’t work. His lungs hurt and his eyes sting and his throat is contracting. He’s sniffling and he hates it, and he hates himself, and he hates the flat because everything hurts.

It takes a solid minute for him to gather himself, to put himself back together. He’s staring at the ceiling again, memories whirling helplessly through his mind. He grabs up his phone and stares at the screen. He’s considering calling again, without the lengthy message this time, when a message appears:

_Me too. SH_


	8. Privacy

Living with Sherlock Holmes ensured that privacy is a rarity. John hadn’t realized that when moving in with him, of course. Then again, he hadn’t known very much about Sherlock at all. That’s the situation with flatmates though—generally, you know fuck-all about them until you move in.

At first, it was dreadful. He’d go to his room and shut the door, and moments later Sherlock would come bursting in. He’d be speaking a million miles a second and would hardly take notice to the fact that John was scrambling to put his shirt back on. And John would shout for him to bugger off, but Sherlock would continue on as though nothing had been said.

So John learned that his room was not a safe haven.

For a while after that, John learned that the only place Sherlock seemed to respect his privacy was in the bathroom. He’d go in there and not a sound would come from the other side. He personally didn’t like the idea of seeking refuge in the toilet, but when he needed a few moments of privacy, it worked in his favor.

It used to, anyway.

It’s hard to hear what’s going on outside of a shower. The water pelts against his skin, and the ceramic of the tub. It echoes, ricochets off over every surface. Not to mention, of course, that the shower is the one and only time John allows his inner musician to let loose. So he’d never hear when the second door of the bathroom opens, the one that leads straight from Sherlock’s room. He’d never hear the tall, pale detective coming in and examining his teeth before making to undo his trousers. He’d have never heard it, except the detective gave an irritated sigh as he reprimanded, “Can you  _please_  desist in singing for just a moment? I can’t focus.”

John yelped quite audibly at the sound. His hands—which had been massaging his scalp—shot down to his pelvis to cover himself, despite the heavy curtain between them. “What in the  _hell_  are you doing?!” he bellowed, backing himself into wall.

He could hear Sherlock sigh. “Making use of the facilities.” he replied simply.

“Yeah, got that. I’m in the bloody shower, Sherlock!”

“Yes, and I’m beside the toilet. Now that we’ve both stated our location—”

“Sherlock, you can’t just come in while I’m having a bath!”

Sherlock audibly scoffed that time. “The time lapse in which you shower is nearly thirty minutes, John. Thirty minutes you spend in the restroom, using one appliance. If I need to  _empty my bladder,_  I see no reason why I should be made to wait for an appliance not in use.”

“Because it’s in a room that is!” John exclaimed. He stepped away from the wall, remembering quite suddenly that Sherlock had no visual of him. Sherlock groaned in obvious annoyance. “Yes, and I often use my computer in the sitting room. Never once do I stop you from using the television while I do so.”

“I’m bloody naked, Sherlock! I hadn’t even heard you come in! What happens if I had stepped out of the shower and you’d been there?”

Sherlock laughed, “You’re concerned I’ll see you nude?”

John flushed. It was a bit silly, really. He was a solider and a doctor, for Christ’s sake. He’d seen more people nude and had more people see  _him_  nude than he’d care to imagine. He rinsed his hair as he answered, “It’s not the nude bit, it’s the accidental bit. Imagine me hopping out of the shower and you unexpectedly turn around and—”

That’s when he saw the long fingers of Sherlock’s hand grab the curtain. He knew what was about to happen, and probably could’ve stopped it properly, but his mind had drawn a blank. 

Sherlock threw back the curtain quickly, gave John a pointed stare before allowing his eyes to roam quickly over John’s naked body. It lasted no more than ten seconds, and Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to John’s face with no change in expression.

John just gaped at him.

“There,” Sherlock said, giving him a pointed look. “Now there’s no chance of accidental surprise, as you are no longer a mystery. I’m going to use the restroom as I see fit, and you’re welcome to do the same in a similar scenario.” His tone was crisp and informative, the type one has no option but to obey. And John was dumbfounded into silence anyway, so the only reaction he could have was to nod.

Sherlock shot him a quick smile before pulling the curtain shut once again. It took a moment for John to restart his head and return to his shower. That time, he listened very carefully for the bathroom door to open and shut.

So it came to be that—no matter what the circumstance, really—John Watson had little to no privacy. He still sought refuge in the restroom, as there were (brief) moments in which Sherlock respected a need for privacy. But mostly, John resigned himself to knowing Sherlock would burst through at any moment. And after a while, even that didn’t seem so bad.


	9. A Battle in Texts

> \- John, I fear I’ve some important and tragic news to bestow upon you. SH

_\- Oh God, what’s happened? Is Mrs. Hudson alright?_

> \- It’s your jumper, John. The one from Christmas. It has—I’m afraid—perished in battle. SH

_\- … What have you done._

> \- It was a dreadful ordeal. But your jumper fought valiantly. SH

_\- What the hell have you done to my clothing?_

> \- It seems as though it was no match for the flame. It gave it everything it had. SH

_\- You didn’t actually burn my jumper._

> \- I managed to salvage the tag. I thought it’d be fitting. SH

_\- That was a gift!_

> \- I tried to convince it not to fight, John. I begged it, I asked it to think of you, but it wouldn’t listen. SH

_\- A gift from Jeanette! And it was a nice jumper, Sherlock! The navy was fitting!_

> \- It’s almost as though it was begging for death. SH

_\- I can’t believe you’ve actually burned my jumper._

> \- Your clothing was hellbent on suicide. There was little I could do to save it. SH

_\- Your clothing will be used in your homicide._

> \- It asked me to pass along a message. SH

_\- I will literally strangle you with your bloody scarf._

> \- It said, “Tell John… that he’s forgotten the milk again.” SH

_\- No one will blame me for your death._

> \- A travesty, really. My condolences for your loss. SH

_\- They may even thank me._

> \- I’d say we could hold a proper burial for it, but I fear it’s already been cremated. SH

_\- I’m binning every body part left in the fridge when I get back._

> \- You touch a single experiment and I’ll make sure your entire collection goes up in flames. SH

_\- Stop burning my clothing!_

> \- Stop wearing such heinous clothing. I’ve done you a service. SH

_\- You aren’t even going to apologize?_  

> \- I’ve done you a service. Never again will you have to worry about looking ridiculous in that tacky jumper. You’re welcome. SH

_\- How do you do these things without regret?_

> \- Simple. I choose not to regret them. Pick up the milk. SH

_\- Tosser._

> \- Whole will do. SH

_\- Anything else, your highness?_  

> \- Biscuits. SH


	10. A Storm

_  
_Sherlock Holmes is afraid of storms.

He knows, he knows. It’s completely irrational. It’s stupendously absurd to fear little more than loud noises and electricity, but he can’t seem to help himself. No matter how many times he’s attempted to talk himself into alleviating the fear, it grips him every time a storm comes around.

And this night is no different.

The thunder rolls, the lightning strikes, and Sherlock lays awake in the dark. His eyes are focused on the ceiling, wide as saucers and unblinking. His body jerks minutely with each flash of electricity illuminating his window. He’s counting to himself, passing each second with a number until the next clap of thunder strikes. Once upon a time, Mycroft had told him the longer the time between claps, the further away the thunder was from him. Whether it holds true, Sherlock has never bothered to research. It’s the only thing that settles him, and so he keeps it (despite its possible inaccuracies.)

Another bolt of lightning floods his room in light and he leaps up from his bed, as though it has smacked the unoccupied side of his mattress. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, one in which he hopes will settle his unnecessarily frazzled nerves, and looks to his door. Were he a child still, he might have crawled into Mycroft’s bed. As such is no longer an option, he glances to his ceiling.

John.

John would be a second body. He’d be an anchor, a weight. He’d work as some sort of reminder of younger times. John is a protector by nature, has saved Sherlock from many things in many different ways. And so for him to save Sherlock once again, in a much simpler aspect, is by no means a stretch of the imagination. He rationalizes it to himself until it makes perfect sense, until he’s no longer locked in place and is instead rushing himself up the stairs to John’s room.

He’s fast asleep, of course. John has no problems sleeping through storms. It makes no difference to him if the thunder is nearer or farther, nor does it matter that his room is lit with the same lightning that causes Sherlock to leap from his skin. And that alone is comforting to Sherlock, for the moment. Until another bolt of lightning streaks across the sky.

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate any longer, but he moves delicately. He’d rather not wake John, of course, would rather John continue sleeping as he lifts the bedclothes and slips himself beneath. But the mattress isn’t new, and the springs are fairly elderly, and so his body—lithe as it is—still stirs him from his slumber.

“W’zat?” John mumbles, only half alert and therefore half comprehensive. Sherlock’s back is toward him. “Go back to sleep, John.” he murmurs as gently as he can. He can feel John staring at him, eyes bleary and face contorted in confusion. “What are you doing here?” John asks, slightly more coherent. 

“No reason.”

“You’re in my bed.”

Sherlock sighs, “I’ve a small phobia of storms and having a body beside me helps.” 

John says nothing more. There’s a silence in which another crack of lightning dashes through the sky, and Sherlock’s body instinctively jolts at both sound and visual. And it is then that John, in all his sleep-hazed glory, scoots himself closer to Sherlock, until their bodies are pressed from shoulder to hip. “S’alright,” he says, wrapping a loose arm around Sherlock’s middle. “Nothin’ wrong with it.” 

John is warm and solid against him, all muscles loose and comfortable. He feels John readjust, slotting their hips together like puzzle pieces, curling his legs up into Sherlock’s, nuzzling his face into the back of his neck. 

Sherlock says nothing as John drifts off once again.

And though lightning still strikes and thunder still rolls, Sherlock finds that he too has drifted off to a restful sleep.


	11. Distance

_  
_It’s not long now. He knows this.

He just needs to memorize, needs to categorize every square inch of him. Sherlock calls him to bed, because he needs to. It has to be like this, and it’s devastating. He’s already laying in bed, sprawled on his back, staring to the ceiling. He has to do this. There is no other option. There is no flip side of the coin. 

John stalks into the room stiffly, a yawn pushing itself from his body. He scratches his belly as he makes his way around the bed, and Sherlock watches every movement. He takes note of the way John’s fingers curl, of how he slips out of his shirt, how his skin looks in this lighting. He’s memorizing the pressure of his footfalls and the exact sound he makes when flopping onto the mattress. John inhales deeply, sliding beneath the bedclothes and scooting close to Sherlock’s body. Sherlock studies this too, the way his shoulders and neck shift as he does so, the small clench of his jaw.

“I’m knackered.” John says quietly, throwing an arm over Sherlock.

It’ll all start soon. He knows this. Sherlock’s eyes roam unabashedly over John’s face, and he catalogs each and every line. He’s tempted to give John a pinch or a punch or slap, just to see him crinkle his face in that blatantly-unamused way. He doesn’t though. Instead he brings his hand up and traces each one with his fingertip. He guides himself along the curve of John’s eyebrows, down the bridge of his nose, over the shape of his lips. John hums in a pleasant way, and Sherlock most certainly jots that down.

John’s hand creeps up Sherlock’s back. It runs up his spine and his fingers splay between his shoulder blades. Each nerve soaks the sensation up, categorizes it accordingly. He’d like to be able to recall that sensation, the gentle smoothing of John’s palm over his skin, at a moments notice.

He’ll need it.

Sherlock leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to John’s cheek. He can feel John’s small smile beneath his lips, can feel the muscles move and tense and get acquainted with the action. He inhales deeply. Every inch of John is filing itself away in Sherlock’s mind, and he’s nearly grateful that it’s done instinctively. In fact, he is. He slides his hand down, slipping down John’s neck and shoulder and arm. He allows his hand to move to John’s back, where—with fingertips—he attempts to trace every muscle he can feel. John is still smiling. 

Sherlock tries to smile too, but it falls into something like a smirk.

“I like this.” John says, his voice a murmur. He scoots closer still, until their bodies are flush. “Normally, this attention to detail might drive me mad but—”

“I’m cataloging you.” Sherlock interrupts him. 

“You’ve already cataloged me, I thought.” John’s eyes slide shut, and he shifts his face closer to Sherlock’s. “Fairly certain you’ve seen every bit I’ve got.” 

“Different purpose.” is the only way Sherlock can think to reply. He speaks against John’s skin, inhales the taste of him into his mouth and allows it to catch at the back of his throat. His eyes are traveling quickly, raking over John’s pores and his hair and his ears and every single bit. His lips are memorizing the texture that is John, rough and smooth and slightly sun-damaged but forever giving. He kisses each line in John’s forehead, and does so again when John raises his eyebrows. 

“It’s late.” John’s voice is a mumble. His eyes are shut and his body is void of all tension. Sherlock’s hand flattens against John’s back, smoothing down his spine to the small of his back with a quiet exhale. “Sleep.” Sherlock murmurs.

“Same to you.”

Sherlock gives a warm smile that John will never see as he leans forward and brushes his lips to John’s. He does so over and over again until John finally decides to capture him properly, to lock him in a kiss that is languid and peaceful, all slow tongues and slower breaths. The hand upon his back moves up, John’s fingers curling around the back of Sherlock’s neck and into his hair. They kiss until they’re breathless, foreheads touching and lips skimming one another.

Because the time is coming. It’s no longer creeping up to him, but rushing at him, like a bull at the reddest of capes. He will leave, for the sake of everything he’s failed to show just how much he cares for. He will not stand down, he will not ease into the corner, because it’s not an option. He’s got one choice, and he’s taking it the best way he can. To destroy that which he can no longer control, to save those who matter most.

The time is coming.

And this is the way Sherlock needs to remember John.


	12. Alarm Clock

_  
_Sherlock is in a coma.

No, not really. 

It’s just the term John’s come to use for Sherlock’s post-case crash. Sherlock tends to stay up for days at time, no rest until the case is solved. Sherlock has a routine once it’s finished, one that John has become very acquainted with. They come back to the flat, Sherlock immediately changes into his dressing gown. John makes tea and they sit in silence for a rather long while. They have a bite to eat—well, John eats, and forces Sherlock to eat a few bites. Then, eventually, they head to bed. 

Sherlock sleeps for at least sixteen hours. Not all in a row, of course. He sleeps for eight, wanders around the flat in a daze for a bit, goes back to sleep for a few more hours, another wake up, another nap. This is normal. John no longer attempts to wake him before the sixteen-hour mark. Because Sherlock gets unpleasant. 

John sets the book he’s reading text-down upon his lap and checks his watch. He mentally rakes through recent information and recalls when Sherlock had begun his crash. And with that information safely stored in mind (eighteen hours now, give or take) he makes his way to his room.

This is the fun part, John’s decided. He opens the door quietly, peeking just his top-half to check upon Sherlock.

He’s asleep, of course. Sherlock is sprawled on his stomach, his head turned away from the door. One arm is tucked beneath his pillow, the other is splayed across the mattress. His bedclothes are tucked around his waist, his legs sticking out from beneath the bottom. John smiles as he crawls over the mattress gently, plodding toward him until he’s half over Sherlock’s back. “Sherlock.” he calls gently.

No response.

John smirks as he leans forward. He presses his lips to the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “Time to get up, Sherlock.” he murmurs, nuzzling Sherlock’s neck gently. He moves down, pressing a slow, warm kiss to the center of Sherlock’s shoulders. He continues on, making trails over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his spine. It’s then that Sherlock finally reacts—a slow arch of his back and a pleasant hum.

“Ah, so you’re awake.” John says.

“No. I’m obviously still sleeping.” Sherlock murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “Do continue, I need to be woken up.”

John rolls his eyes, but he’s still smirking as he finishes his trail at the small of Sherlock’s back. He gives his bum a quick tap and pulls himself back. “Come on, you need to have a bath.”

“Do I? Is it an absolute necessity at this very moment?” Sherlock replies with a huff, flopping onto his back and sighing. He looks at John, who is giving him one of  _those_  looks, and rolls his eyes. “Fine.” he mutters, throwing back the bedclothes and throwing his legs over the side. He tosses his own look back to John, but with his mussed hair and sleepy face, it merely comes across as petulant. Which, of course, is more endearing than annoying. 

John is left alone in the room momentarily. But only briefly. Sherlock pops his head through the pebbled glass door and peers at John. “Are you not joining me?” Sherlock asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. John gives him a small chuckle. He’s already had a bath, has dressed, has been awake for hours. But…

Well, who is he to say no?


	13. The Battle Rages On

_Where are you?_

> Classified information. SH

_Oh, I’m sure it is. What have you done to my laptop?_

> Simple procedure. SH

_It’s not turning on, Sherlock_

> Simple procedure to rip out its innards. SH

_You’ve ripped out all the innards? You’re joking._

> Certainly not a matter to jest over. SH

_What the hell is all over it?_

> Grease. Obvious. SH

_Where are you?_

> Classified information. SH

_I will find you. And I will assassinate you._

> I’m flattered. SH

_You owe me an entire bloody laptop, Sherlock._

> Or the reparation of yours. SH

_You’ve ripped out the innards and covered it in grease. I think it’s beyond repair._

> Only if I’ve lost the pieces necessary for reassembly. SH

_Have you?_

> Just the one. SH

_Sniped from the building across the road. No one would even know._

> I do love when you threaten my life. It sends a thrill down my spine. SH

_Twat._


	14. Baccate

There is an interesting aroma in the air, unidentifiable to John. This is easy to deduce—Sherlock is experimenting. Now the difficult part lies in what exactly it is he’s doing.

John meanders into the kitchen cautiously, as though any sounds may disrupt the mad scientist at work. But it doesn’t, of course. Sherlock blindly motions him forward, waving his hand limply at the wrist. And so John does, resting the grocery bags upon the table. He places a hand upon his hip and stares down at the plethora of slides and tubes and other nonsensical that typical households lack, then looks to Sherlock. “What’s this then?”

“Experiment. In which—”

“No, it’s all right. Probably wouldn’t understand it anyway.” John stops him before he gets too far into a spiel. Sherlock looks up at him and frowns, but John smiles despite that. “I’m assuming the results are interesting?”

There’s a strange, unappetizing magenta something sitting in a petri dish, one that Sherlock dips his finger in and sniffs. “Sort of.” he replies simply. He glances down at it, examines it momentarily, then—with no more hesitation than someone might show for turning off a telly—he pops his finger into his mouth. John is genuinely taken aback, so much so that he backs up like Sherlock may combust.

He doesn’t, obviously. Instead, he gives a pleasant little hum as he pulls his finger from his lips. “Interesting.” He murmurs. The madman dips his finger into the  _whatever-that-is_  again, a larger portion this time, and sticks it immediately into his mouth. “Interesting. Chewy, strangely  _juicy…”_ He mutters out loud, around his finger. He pops it from his mouth and jots a note down rather quickly. John is unnerved, just slightly. “Very baccate, in fact.” He jots that down, too.

“Baccate?” John asks. 

Sherlock turns, looks up at him as though he’s nearly (already) forgotten his presence. “Berry-like.” He says simply, “In taste, in texture. Here—” He slides his finger through it once again and holds it up, toward John’s mouth, “Test it.” 

“Ah, no. Think I’ll pass.”

“The taste, John.”

“I’m not putting whatever  _that_  is in my mouth.” John looks pointedly to the dish, then back to Sherlock.

Sherlock gives an irritated huff before popping the finger back into his mouth. Quickly, efficiently, he clears his finger and swallows down whatever the substance is. Then, before John can protest, he wraps his hand John shirt, forces him down, and crushes their lips together. He doesn’t fool about with silly little kisses, instantly probing John’s lips apart and slipping his tongue against the other. And—wouldn’t you know it—Sherlock is  _quite_  right. His tongue has a distinctly berry taste to it, thought which of the numerous berries it tastes of, John can pinpoint. Not that he’s trying very hard.

Regrettably, Sherlock pulls back and gives John a pointed look. “Baccate, yes?” he asks after a moment, tone expectant. John takes a moment, smacking his lips together and pursing his lips. “Yeah,” he agrees, “It is a bit berry-like.”

“You should also—”

“No.” John cuts him off, turning to finally put the groceries away.

“But—”

“And if that’s toxic, I’ll have your head.”


	15. Ordinary

There is a silence that falls over the sitting room of 221B, and for either man it means something different.

For John, it is a peaceful silence. It’s been a night—it’s always been a night at the side of Sherlock Holmes—and the silence is comforting. It wraps him up, sitting beside the fire, like a warm blanket. His head lolls and his eyes shut and breathes deeply, for these moments are so very rare, one has to take the time to appreciate them.

For Sherlock, it is just physical silence. There’s no conversation, only the crackle of splitting logs, the gentle roar that fire tends to have whilst sitting contained behind a grate. And that suits him, allows the swift language of his head to take over and be as loud or as quiet as necessary. For now, it is a hum in his ear, thoughts whizzing by at a lofty speed. 

He looks to John. He knows just from the heaviness of his eyelids and the lack of tension in his muscles that his mind is silent, that he is experiencing white noise that his own head will never allow. 

“John,” he asks into the silence. 

John’s shoulders lift him forward and his head falls upright. His eyelids barely open, and he replies with an acknowledging hum.

“Tell me,” Sherlock says, bringing his knees to his chest. His arms around around his shins. “What’s  _ordinary_ like?” 

John’s brows furrow. There’s no malice in his voice, not the same vicious, pretentious tone he’d take had they been on a case and John had failed to see the “obvious” (it’s never bloody obvious.) It seems genuine enough a question but—well, how does one answer it? “Erm,” John begins, blinking. “How do you mean?” Elaboration might help.

Sherlock sighs, rests his chin to his knees. He looks at the fire momentarily then glances to John. “I see you sitting there and I can tell your back is sore, your knees are weak. You’ve got bags under your eyes, and I can tell you precisely how much sleep you’ve been lacking according to them.” He explains, and John nods. He knows he can. “But that’s not ordinary. I’m aware of that.”

“Okay.”

“So what’s it like being ordinary?”

John should probably be offended by such a question, as he has never considered himself very ordinary. Though admittedly, compared to Sherlock Holmes, he is. Perhaps not the lowest form of ordinary, but ordinary enough. He takes a deep breath. A thousand thoughts go through his head on the concept of ordinary, all the stereotypes, all the societal roles that people play. He considers talking about normative culture and then it all just stops. Sherlock is not interested in things he can learn from a book, from a lecture, from some class John took in Uni. 

He exhales. “You know everything about yourself?” he asks Sherlock finally.

Sherlock nods.

“Well, just consider the  _opposite_  of that, and you’ve got ordinary.” 

Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes, looks back to the fire. But it’s a farce, his lack of patience. It is that time. Because there’s a silly little bubble of something warm in his stomach, creeping up into his chest until it shows (at the barest minimum) upon his face. Just a quick quirk at the corner of his lip, the faintest smile. Sherlock knows there’s no malicious intent in John’s words, because John smiles as he says it. John thinks Sherlock is extraordinary (which, when thought about, is a bizarre way to express appreciation of someone. Just look at the root words! ‘Extra’ and ‘Ordinary’, it’s as though—) He stops a mild tangent before it gets out of hand and allows himself to bask in feeling he doesn’t often allow himself to.


	16. Whims

“I’m surprised you even came.”

Sherlock eyes are closed. His brain is buzzing, as it normally is, but it’s gentle and calm, and welcome. His hands rest folded upon his stomach. The grass beneath him is cool, sprinkled with dew. The jeans he adorns are becoming wet, the back of his shirt, as well as the flimsy canvas shoes he wears. And yet, for whatever reason, he finds himself momentarily uncaring. He rolls his head, glances to John, who is much closer than he thought he’d be. “Are you?” he asks, voice lazy and quiet.

John nods, looks back to the sky. “Thought you might have thought it would be rubbish, this. Laying out, looking at the stars.”

“It is.” Sherlock replies simply.

John side glances Sherlock. He wets his lips and his brows furrow, as though the stars have someone befuddled him. He inhales deeply and tips his head toward Sherlock, gives his face a once over before meeting his eyes. “Then why are you here?”

“Obvious.” Sherlock states, diverting his attention to the sky. “It is two o’clock in the morning on your twenty-third birthday, you’ve obviously been up most of the evening studying, and you needed air,” he rambles, “Apparently, you wanted my company to do so. As it is your birthday, and one traditionally receives gifts upon such a day, I felt obliged to cater to your every whim.” His tongue slips over his lips quickly and he blinks at the inky black canvas above them. 

He can’t see John’s smile. “You’re catering to my whims today?”

Sherlock hums in reply.

“All of them?”

“I only felt it appropriate, as I’m certainly not going to be gift-shopping.” He doesn’t look to John, but a smirk crawls over his lips.

“What if I’ve got loads of whims? Will you cater to all of them?” John asks, body shifting closer. 

“Depending on the whim, I suppose.” Sherlock answers, blinking thoughtfully. 

He can feel John’s body heat, knows he’s scooting and arranging himself until they are flush from hip to shoulder. A hand slides up and over the planes of Sherlock’s body, creeps over his stomach. Fingers curl around his hand and drag it downward, until their fingers are laced and their palms are touching. 

Sherlock turns his head to make an inquiry, and originally he thinks it’s to question John’s choice. But then it falls off, rolls into the metaphoric gutter, and the idea keeps rolling on. John wears a warm smile like a cozy jumper. It reminds Sherlock of films he’d glanced at in passing, where there is romance and love and ridiculous amounts of sentiment that holds no value in reality. 

They say, in novels, in film, that the heart begins to race the moment before a kiss occurs. And Sherlock knows somewhere in the back of his mind that it’s true, that excitement causes adrenaline to flow, that the pulse jumps, pupils dilate, breath catches. Despite that, he’s not prepared for the sudden lurch in his chest, the one that begins the rapid cadence in his ribs. John leans in the whole millimetre of space between them and their lips touch, and Sherlock is nearly certain that his heart may jump out of his throat and into John’s mouth. 

It doesn’t, of course. John kisses him sweet and gentle, a brush of lips that nearly couldn’t pass for a kiss, but it is. Their hands are clenched and their bodies are pressed tight, and John kisses Sherlock beneath the stars at 2:27am, as though they’ve been cast as the leads in a film about love. As though they exemplify the emotion, epitomize it. And when Sherlock feels John’s lips leave his, he leans forward and seals their mouths together again.


	17. Jellyfish

“Go on, tell me.”

“God no. It’s stupid, Sherlock.”

“Tell me anyway.”

John sighs, rolls his eyes. “Not exactly the encouragement I was looking for.”

Sherlock smirks, pours another glass of wine and slips it toward John. “If I’m to tell you anymore of my childhood pirate fantasies, then you  _have_  to explain the jellyfish dream.”

Another roll of his eyes. John picks up the glass and slouches into the couch a little lower, muscles relaxing and head lolling. He peers over to Sherlock lazily, blinking relatively slowly and heaves a sigh. “All right. Fine. But you’re not allowed to laugh. Promise you won’t.”

“I’ll make no such promises.” Sherlock replies with a grin, curling his legs up to his chest.

John shrugs his shoulders in a lazy sort of hitch of movement, then shuts his eyes. “When I was—oh, I don’t know, probably about six? My mum took Harry and me to this little aquarium.” He begins. He can see it there, behind his eyelids, the little tanks and all the different sorts of fish. “I don’t know which, or if it even exists anymore—anyway, point is we were going about, as you do, and then mum let us off to sort of take a gander at out own leisure.”

“Your mother allowed two children under ten years of age to meander an aquarium unsupervised?” Sherlock asks with a furrow of his brow.

John doesn’t see it—he waves a dismissive hand toward Sherlock and creases his own. “No, no. Don’t be daft. She was still watching, she just wasn’t hovering.”

“I see.”

“At any rate,” John continues on, raising his voice to signal his return to his tale, “Harry was really keen on the manta rays, because she liked the tails. And when mum came round to check on me, I was practically glued to the jellyfish tank.” He recalls the bobbing little mushroom quite vividly, pink against the blue back of the tank. “She has photographs—hands pressed against the glass, nose smashed in on it, eyes wide. Like I was trying to push my way through.”

Sherlock give a hint of a smile. He can see it, little John Watson with his blond bowl-cut and striped jumpers, ice cream down the front maybe. He doesn’t say anything.

“She asked me if I liked the jellyfish,” John says, and a little smile comes to his lips as he takes a sip from his glass, “And I told her that I wanted to  _be_  the jellyfish.” He nods to himself, gives a gentle chuckle. “For the longest time after that, I did want to be a jellyfish as well. Life ambition was to—to eventually have tentacles replace my legs and bob about in an ocean somewhere.” 

“When did you stop wanting to be a jellyfish?” Sherlock asks, and his voice has gone much softer than John’s used to hearing it. 

He takes a moment to consider this. Recalls his militant father, harping on about normality and the way things worked, how silly pipe dreams were, that he and Harry should grow up to be doctor’s or lawyers or something that might do the world some  _good._  How he’d scoffed at six-year-old John’s little confession, told him to man up. But no, that’s not when he stopped wanting to be a jellyfish.

“Never.” He finds himself saying. John opens his eyes finally and looks to Sherlock, who looks quite as soft as his voice sounded. He gives a little half smile, “I don’t think I’ve ever not wanted to be a jellyfish. Maybe not as much anymore—learning a bit more about the way they work and all. But—days off.” He nods, looks to his glass. “Could be nice to just sort of—bob about brainlessly, not have to think about all the societal norms of being an adult. Just sit there, existing, and have food fall into your hands.” 

Sherlock, of course, can’t readily see the appeal of being brainless. And somewhere in his head, John knows that. Neither of them question it. Sherlock looks to John with something strangely affectionate in his eyes, and John finds himself wondering what it might be like to kiss him. Oh, oh no.

He looks away and heaves himself forward, finishes off the dark wine in his glass in one gulp and sets it upon the table. He glances to the bottle and—oh, it’s empty. Sherlock notes it as well, “Looks like we’ve run out.” He says simply.

“I’ve a bottle of scotch, in the cupboard.” John replies.

“Grab it and two tumblers, then.”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock nods. “Going to need it if I’m to tell you any of my childhood.”

John grins, “I look forward to hearing of your swash-buckling days, Captain Holmes.”


	18. Scars

 

“This one?”

“Beaker shattered under an abundance of heat. Good size chunk ended up lodged in my skin.”

“Should  _really_  look into side effects of heat.”

“Why _thank you_ , Dr. Watson. How  _ever_  will I repay you for bestowing such knowledge?”

John smirks, gives Sherlock’s chest a quick, flat-palmed smack before tracing over the next faint, pale mark in the detective’s skin. “And how about this one?” He asks of the scar. He hadn’t realized Sherlock might have scars, might have stories laid out on his skin. Another way in which the opposites bore similarities. 

Sherlock frowns at the ceiling, eyes squinted as though attempting to recall the exact scar by the feel of John’s fingers over it. He heaves his head upright, frown still in place, and looks down to the mark. “Oh, that one,” he mutters, flopping his head back into the pillow. “One of my first larger cases. Man with a knife—no, literally. A steak knife. Was sort of amusing after all was said and done,” he muses, a faint smile twitching on his lips as John’s blatant amusement. 

“Man who brought a real knife to a metaphoric gun fight. Didn’t end up winning, I imagine,” John replies with a little wink.

“No. Left a mark though—twenty-five years old, and it will remain because his  _thrust_  was a bit better than I’d anticipated,” Sherlock heaves an exasperated sigh and looks to John, “Oh, the mistakes children make.”

“Go on, this one now,” John segues, thumbing over a circular sort of mark on near his hip. He traces over the sunken skin, over the brown ring. He imagines a man with a jagged beer bottle or a lead pipe gone all wrong. He imagines a hospital visit that ended in no-prescription pain medications over a bad habit. And Sherlock’s moment of hesitation only keeps him on pins and needles, keeps more stories weaving in his head. Finally, Sherlock shuts his eyes. He shakes his head minutely and licks his lips. “Mycroft,” he murmurs, eyebrows raising momentarily. His eyes open lazily to John’s look of befuddlement.

“Mycroft?” John repeats.

Sherlock hums, and—wouldn’t you know it—a little half smile creeps onto his lips. “I was six, learning to ride a bicycle. It’s the one thing Mycroft was never quite comfortable with.” A chuckle rumbles in his chest and escapes over his lips in a puff of air. “He was upset that I’d caught on quickly, and as revenge pushed me off.” His eyes shut once again. He nuzzles his head a little deeper into his pillow and rolls his body in comfort adjustment. “I landed on the handlebar. It was missing the rubber stopper.”

“Ouch,” John says, though he can’t help a small giggle.

“Nothing compared to the bollocking he got from Mummy for it.” 

“And here it is, today—proof that you managed a one-over on Mycroft.”

“Scarred for life, I’m afraid. He still doesn’t ride bicycles,” Sherlock’s eyes open, and he looks to John inquisitively. “Perhaps we should make purchase of a few. Take a ride to his home. Oh, to see the look on his face.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“ _C’est la vie_.”


	19. Fancy Dress

 

“You  _have_  to, Sherlock.”

“I’ve no obligation to do  _anything_ , I’ll thank you to remember.”

“But it’s a  _Halloween_  party!”

“Say it with more  _emphasis_ , John. Then you might  _really_  trigger my interest.”

John scowls at the tall, lanky git seated on his bed over his shoulder. He turns to view his profile in the full-length mirror before him, frowning at the reflection. He sucks in his stomach, puffs out his chest. His uniform—it’s not quite fitting the way it’s supposed to. It’s a bit tighter than he remembers in the trousers, and the top seems to bulge more than he cares to admit. “You have to dress up on Halloween,” he says, tugging and adjusting himself properly. “Unwritten rule, Sherlock.”

“I dress impeccably daily.”

“I meant in proper costume.”

“Is  _soldier_  considered a costume for you? I believe that was your occupation for some time,” Sherlock replies, quirking a haughty eyebrow. He takes the book from John’s bedside table and opens it at random, lips pressing into a line as he scans over the text. “That doesn’t exactly /count/ either, if your guidelines are anything to go by,” he adds absently. 

“But it’s not my everyday,” John retorts, turning back to fully face the mirror. Not bad. Could be worse, he supposes with a tilt of his head. “And is—technically—no longer my job.”

“Once a soldier, always a soldier. Isn’t that what they say?” Sherlock says as he stands, dropping the book back onto the mattress and ambling lazily toward John. “So how about this,” He says, stopping just behind John and peering at him in the reflection. “You may dress as a soldier for Halloween, and I’ll dress as a consulting detective—”

“That’s not a costume,” John interrupts loudly, frowning and shaking his head.

“Nor is your uniform but you insist upon wearing it,” Sherlock replies, giving John’s reflection a knowing look. John’s frown deepens and he is about to insist that, in the spirit of all things gruesome, the least Sherlock could do was splash a bit of fake blood on him or something. But before he can, just as he opens his mouth, Sherlock leans into his ear. He continues looking to John’s reflection, presses his lips to John’s ear and breathes a rumbling, “At ease, soldier.” He gives John’s bum a quick grab, a full handed squeeze, before smirking and striding from the room.


	20. Captain

“Hang on, hang on, hang on.”

“Very little leverage in this position.”

“I didn’t mean literally, you great twat.”

“You know  _just_  what to say to get me.”

“Just—just lift your leg a bit.”

“And put it  _where_?”

“Just hold it upright and I can—”

“You expect me to  _hold my leg in that position_  the entire time?”

“What? No, I—Here, let me—”

“Ow! I don’t  _bend_  that way, John.”

“Well, maybe shrink a bit and I won’t have to _bend_  you that way.”

“Perhaps you should look into wearing some variation of  _platforms_.”

“Bend your knees.”

“Oh, this is ridiculous. I’ve practically  _lost interest_  now—”

“Bend your knees,  _now_.”

“John, I—”

“That’s an  _order_.”

“Oh, I—Oh,  _yes sir_.”


	21. Alternate Memory

John Watson’s heart is hammering in his rib cage, rattling around like it has detached in a spasm of desperation. He’s temporarily frozen, aching from what feels like miles away—but not. In reality, he is no more than five feet away from the worlds only consulting detective, the one who stepped off the roof and lived.

The one who is currently standing on the precipice once again, hands clasped behind his back in utterly unnerving tranquility.

John Watson is having a heart attack, possibly. Or perhaps his body is simply seizing for ideas. Or maybe he’s reliving a moment in time—only now he has the opportunity to stop it.

“Sherlock,” he says quietly, hesitantly. “Come on, this isn’t—” He pauses before the thought completes. He’s not sure what it isn’t. ‘Fair’ comes to mind, but it doesn’t make sense, and he’s not sure it would be a logical argument to Sherlock Holmes. “Come down,” he tries instead, voice calm and steady.

Sherlock doesn’t move. John watches him, can see him inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly. “Sher—”

“How often did you wish you could’ve been just there?” Sherlock asks, his head turning to peer over his shoulder. “After all was said and done, how frequently did you consider alternate scenarios, ones in which you ended up just there?”

“Everyday,” John replies instantly. He takes a step forward.

“What would you have done?” Sherlock enquires, back to the air, “What would you have said? How would things have changed?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” John says, with another step.

“You do,” Sherlock states firmly. “You just confessed to it. You thought of it everyday—you considered being in this exact spot, when you were certain I had meant to end my life.” He turns slowly, back to the world, eyes on John. “Had the circumstances not depended upon my death, had I simply snapped, had you been the last person I wished to speak to, to see, what would you have done?”

John swallows thickly. His head reels and his stomach flips and his eyes can’t keep themselves from flickering to Sherlock’s feet, to make certain he’s still standing. What would he have said, what would he have done? “I’d have said everything I always meant to,” he says finally, slowly.

“Why?” Sherlock asks.

“Because if you were going to do it,” John replies, quiet and careful, “Nothing I would’ve said would stop you. I’d—” He wets his lips and swallows again. “I’d want you to die knowing what was in my head.”

“Why?” Sherlock asks again, firmer, more emphatically.

“I don’t know,” John says, voice gone just slightly wild. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath. Calm. Collect. “Because—because maybe knowing how I felt about it would’ve had some effect.”

“What would you have said?”

John sighs, low and weary. “I’d have—” He pauses, shakes his head, resigns quietly. “I’d have told you that I’d miss you if you left. I’d tell you that you took a broken man and fixed him, and if you jumped, you’d break him again and some piece of him would be broken forever.” He takes a deep breath, crosses his arms over his chest. “I’d tell you—I’d tell you I love you, and I hadn’t meant to, but I do, and if you had to die, I’d want you to do it knowing that, and that I always would.”

A silence hangs in the air, atmospheric sounds dimming into quiet as the words hang heavier and heavier still. John can feel Sherlock’s eyes burning into his skin, leaving marks for when he looks away. John thinks he may leave, but—but Sherlock is still standing on the ledge, could lean back by accident and not walk away this time.

“Come here,” Sherlock says.

John’s brows furrow and he looks to Sherlock. “What?”

“Has the height made you deaf?” Sherlock asks facetiously. “I asked—or rather demanded—you come here.”

John obliges in cautious, curious steps. Sherlock doesn’t move a muscle, not until John is standing just before him. And when he is, Sherlock takes one step sideways and steps down. He sits upon the ledge and turns, legs dangling off the edge, and pats the seat beside him. “Join me,” he says.

John doesn’t ask why. He mimics Sherlock’s movements, sits and turns and feels queasy with nothing beneath his feet. They say nothing for a moment, until Sherlock does. “I knew, you know,” he says, his hands folded in his lap. “You’re obvious—an open book, all emotion and sentiment, written as big as marquee letters across your face.”

“So—” John says awkwardly.

“So I thought I might verify,” Sherlock interrupts. “So I thought I might bring us here, where our combined memory is forever tainted with a necessary evil, and—” He inhales deeply, exhales slowly. “And I thought I might alter it. Something bad happened here, and now—something good will.”

John frowns in confusion. He looks to Sherlock and his eyes narrow in suspicion. Sherlock returns the look with exasperation and rolls his eyes. He leans in and presses his lips to John’s, firm and careful, necessary and cautious. He pulls away and looks back to the world. “You see? An exchange. Now, whenever you think of this rooftop, you will remember the first time I kissed you,” he says, strangely strangled.

A slow smile crosses John’s lips and he nods slowly. He looks out and presses his lips into a line. “The first time we kissed,” he corrects. “Whenever I look at this rooftop, I’ll remember the first time we kissed.”

Sherlock’s brow arches and he turns to look at John once again. “Well, no,” he says, shaking his head, “You see, because I—”

It is then that Sherlock is interrupted by John’s lips, by hands holding him steady against his mouth. He understands very quickly, the difference between the ideas. And, he thinks, it is a much better memory than anything he could’ve conjured on his own.


	22. Chatting Up

There’s a boy at the bar, and he’s rather quiet and looks a bit like he’d rather be anywhere else but the exact location he’s currently leaning in. And John Watson can see this, can practically feel the “fuck off” emanating from this stranger from his own place near the back of the pub, half leaning on Gavin (or—fuck, is this Richard? He can’t tell now, they all look the same after this much liquor.) But he’s been eyeing up this boy—tall, lean, immaculate from the back (absolutely) and has been attempting to decide which of his lines would work best.

Now normally, one should know, John Watson would not be going through a mental list of crap chat-up lines he’d heard on telly. Normally, his first instinct would be to avert his gaze from a rather pert arse belonging to that of a bloke. Not that he minds, of course, it really is all fine, but he’s not that sort—until he’s had a few. Or maybe that’s the time he feels most comfortable expressing it, the liquor a nice little excuse easily available in case of emergency. Either way, he wouldn’t be wondering if “Do you wash your trousers in window cleaner? I can see myself in them.” would work. He’d be wondering if he should approach at all. And if he were sober right in this moment, based on the look of disdain this (beautiful) creature is wearing, he’d definitely say no.

But now, he’s quite keen on that one that Dave told him in jest, the one about the body, and he’s tugging at Richard’s (or is it Gavin? Did Pete come along?) shirt and demanding he be lead toward the bar. And of course, the bastards (John would later call them) are all laughing as they take him for another shot of liquid gold. He can hear them speaking, and he thnks they’re talking to him but that doesn’t seem right, because he’s got nothing to say to them. 

The bar seems a lot longer than he remembers, but John makes his way carefully toward the lad and settles himself into a haphazardous sort of casual lean. He clears his throat and puts what he knows to be a relatively charming smile, awaits the boy to look round to him. 

But this kid, he just takes a slow sip of his drink. He keeps his eyes ahead, stares at the shelves of liquor in a deliberately unfocused manner. All of his attention is obviously focused upon John, but he’s not biting in the right way. And so John clears his throat again, louder, on purpose. “‘Scuse me,” he says, and he thinks he sounds debonair but his words are sticking together and hanging like loose draping.  The boy, dark haired and light eyed from this close, doesn’t budge. John frowns just slightly, and he gives the boy a tap (a slap—he smacks his arm with the back of his hand a bit harder than intended.) He says ,”Oi, mate. Fancy giving me a minute of your time?”

The boy, with sharp cheeks and a stellar mouth, turns his head slowly and finally looks to John. His brow quirks and he blinks in mild confusion as he says “Yes?”

John feels a pleasant flutter at being looked at, at being spoken to, but he plays it cool (not) as he readjusts his weight just a bit. “So ah—” he begins, and the room is spinning just a hint (just a lot) but he’s quite collected (no) so he keeps on, “IF I ah—If I said you had a fantastic body…” he trails off, as though he’s forgotten the rest. For a minute, maybe he has, but he goes on idiotically, as though the pause is quite necessary. “Would you hold it against me?” 

The boy, he blinks again. Blank faced, he simply blinks in reply and after a moment the boy huffs in a quiet laugh. John grins, slowly, with brows raised in that same “charming” fashion. The boy turns toward him and rests his head in his hand. “You’re an idiot,” he says simply, as though stating a fact.

And John, in all his glory, gives an over enthusiastic nod. “Quite right, but you smiled.”

The boy’s lips twitch in a smile. “What’s your name?” he asks.

"You can call me John," comes the reply. "What can I call you?"

"Sherlock."

"Didn’t answer my question, y’know."

"Not in a million years." 

"How ‘bout a million and one?"


	23. Punk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unilock.

Sweat. Sweat and cigarette smoke. Marijuana, spilled liquor. Sherlock Holmes can pinpoint each scent separately, pressed up against the back most wall of the venue. Beer, cheapest available. Fresh dye-jobs—nothing quite like the chemical odor of blue hair. That’s him though, he remembers. Maybe things are starting to get fuzzy.

The band plays, loud and almost unintelligible. He nurses the beer in his hand—not cheap, not great. Would prefer vodka or whiskey or something with taste. Something in the form of a shot. Something to help the rest of what’s in his system along. They take so long on their own these days. Maybe another line, maybe.

Another person clambers onto the stage, They shout into the microphone and the bouncer just about flings them off the stage and into the crowd. They drop off into the middle of a pit, get half trampled amidst flailing limbs and intoxicated patrons.

"Shite, innit?" A voice yells from his side. He turns and looks down to the boy who has taken up the empty space beside him. He’s got an violent purple mop of sleep-mussed hair. He wears chains and ripped denim and his shoes might fall apart that evening (Sherlock thinks it’s highly likely). He doesn’t struggle with the smile on his face. He’s drunk, obvious."This band—fuckin’  _hate_ these tossers,” he adds, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Then what are you doing here?" Sherlock asks, feeling half strange over the volume of his voice.

"Nothin’ better to do, is there?" the boy asks, "What about you?"

Sherlock looks to the stage. The singer, if one can call him that, has ripped his shirt—caught on something. Absolutely pissed drunk, Sherlock knows. Not by the swagger in his wobbling steps nor the slur of his speech.

"Vox is a friend of mine," Sherlock replies, looking back to the curious individual beside him, "Well—I say  _friend.”_

"You lot shagging?" The unabashed boy asks.

"Only when he’s got something of value," Sherlock replies.

The boy wriggles a pack of smokes from the front pocket of the flannel shirt he wears and smacks the bottom a few times. He eyes Sherlock over whilst slipping one tan filter between his lips. He pulls the cigarette from the pack and offers the pack toward Sherlock. “He usually got anything of value?”

"Nothing I can’t get elsewhere these days." He takes a smoke from the pack and tips it between his lips. It dangles there, and he notes how easily the boys eyes seem to follow it. He thinks this boy is easy, thinks he’s sort of attractive. He wonders how long it’ll be until he’s inviting him back to his. He wonders how long he’ll take to accept.

"What’s your name?" Sherlock asks.

"I get called Ham a lot," the boy replies.

"Yeah, but what’s your name?" Sherlock repeats.

The boy called Ham hesitates for a moment before leaning in toward Sherlock’s ear. “John,” he says, something like a confession. “John Watson.” He backs away and looks over Sherlock. “You?”

"Lock," Sherlock retorts.

"That’s not your name," John says knowingly.

"Half of," Sherlock states. John looks to him and something like a cheeky smirk comes over his face. The band finishes their song and launch into the next. Neither of them seem all that interested in staying.

"Fancy fucking off?" Sherlock asks.

"You’re with the band, aren’t you?" John enquires.

"No, I  _know_  the band,” Sherlock says. “And I know you aren’t here with anyone, obvious in the way you meander to the first wall flower you see. Hoping I wasn’t a twat so you can get on with someone. Not your normal scene, is it?”

John doesn’t reply, just quirks a brow.

"So neither of us has any obligation to hang about shite music and worse people," Sherlock tells him. "Think we could make better company with one another."

"Are you coming on to me, mate?" John asks.

"No, I’m accepting  _your_ advances,” Sherlock says with a smirk.

"I wasn’t—"

"Come on,  _Ham_ ,” Sherlock says. The drugs have finally, finally, finally kicked in. He’s hyper and calm and drunk and he couldn’t give a shite about the amount of coke Vox has on him right then or after he gets off the stage. “Share what I’ve got if you keep me entertained.”

"What have you got?" John asks, though he is—in fact—already making to leave the crowded, sweaty, vomit stained venue.

"Whatever you can possibly want."

"Fairly certain you’re coming on to me."

"Problem?"

John doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no. He ruffles his hair and the smell of chemical wafts into Sherlock’s nostrils. John Watson smells like sweat and beer and cigarettes and chemicals and Sherlock thinks he’d quite like to follow the boy right out.

"Come on then," John says, "I ain’t hangin’ about for one more shite song."

 

*

 

John Watson’s flat is crowded with secondhand furniture and beer bottles. There are people on the couch, sprawled out in half-naked stupors. Music blares from the only thing of any value in the home—the stereo. There’s a haze of smoke drifting up and hanging just above them. Sherlock can’t decide if it’s cigarette or marijuana right away—he thinks it’s a mixture of both, given the paraphenalia on the table and the familiar scent.

Sherlock follows after the boy in the flannel, in the denim vest. There’s a patch on his back of a band Sherlock’s heard of in passing and couldn’t give a toss about. His eyes travel over the lines and he only half realises that John has lead him into a room, has pushed a bottle into his hand.

"Have a seat," John says, an arm extended and waving around the room. It’s scarce—a box spring and a mattress on the floor, a lamp sitting just beside it. An ashtray filled to the brim. Clothes scattered on the dingy carpet. John takes the lead, flops himself onto his bed and scoots his back to the wall. His feet hang off the end. Sherlock doesn’t immediately follow.

"So how’d you get mixed up with Vox?" he finds John asking. Sherlock quirks a brow as he turns back to John. The boy is crumbling pot between his fingers, is making sure to tidily dip it into the rolling paper. "Knew a bloke," Sherlock replies. He finally takes what he assumes to be his place just beside John on his bed. He takes a swig of his drink once he settles. "Bloke in a band, as it happens."

"Bit of a laundry list of the fuckers," John says, letting out a breathless chuckle. He brings the paper to his mouth and his tongue swipes over the edge. Sherlock finds himself watching. Cheap beer and cocaine have put him in a fog of hyperactivity and sluggishness. He snaps his eyes back to Johns a moment later, wondering lamely if his pause is noticed. "I’ve a weakness for a boy with gear," he finally retaliates.

"Band lads always got the best?" John enquires.

"Maybe not the best," Sherlock says, "but always holding."

"Priorities," John chuckles.

He places the freshly rolled joint between his lips and tucks his brew between his legs. He pulls a lighter from his pocket—with some work—and brings it up to spark against the paper. It lights and he inhales deeply, ensures that the end cherries before passing it off to Sherlock.

"My priorities are strictly personal pleasure," Sherlock says, slipping the spliff between two long fingers as he puts it to his lips. "And those who see to it that such is met." He inhales deeply, graceful as he was raised to be, and tips his head back against the wall. He knows that John ‘Ham’ Watson is watching, can almost feel his eyes burning trails over cheek and jaw and lip and neck. He thinks he can mentally follow the exact path they take, despite seeing nothing more than the back of his eyelids. 

"Didn’t know Vox was into buggering blokes," John says after a moment, pensive as he seems to mimic Sherlock’s nonchalance. The joint is held out, offered back to John, but he doesn’t seem too bothered to take it. Sherlock takes this as an invitation to hit again. "He isn’t," he finally decides to reply. 

"But you just said—"

"I said he and I were friends. You filled in the rest."

John blanches and Sherlock takes great pleasure from it. He doesn’t show it, of course, not the whole of it. Just a quick twitch at the corner of his lip indicates that he’s pleased. “However—” he continues, “He and I do, in fact, shag.”

"So then—"

"So then one can assume," Sherlock interrupts, spliff back to his lips, "That I have a rather /profound/ effect on people." He tips his head back down and looks to the boy beside him. John is watching him, eyes roving over his features quickly, methodically. Sherlock catches them drifting down into his collar and below, until he seems to catch himself. His eyes dart back up to catch Sherlock’s, and he resists the smile that lurks round the corners of his mouth. "Took an extra hit," John says, and Sherlock can hear the change in pitch as though it were a conscious decision.

Smoke held in his lungs, Sherlock smirks. His brows lift and his head tilts in a conceding fashion. The smoke billows from his mouth as he exhales, “How horrid of me. I should, perhaps, give you one.” 

But he doesn’t pass it back. He puts the joint to his lips once again, inhales deeply. John watches his adam’s apple work as he holds it. Maybe a second passes, maybe infinity happens, John can’t be certain right then. What he is certain of is that Sherlock’s body moves gently, fluidly toward him. His long, spindly hand takes control of John’s jaw. And then there are lips, pressed delicately against his own. And there’s a tongue, carefully probing its way into John’s mouth. And John—well, he’s quite powerless to stop it. He doesn’t want to. Sherlock tastes like lager and ash, and there’s smoke blowing into his lungs, and these lips are quite soft and lovely, considering the source. 

When Sherlock pulls away, it is almost disappointing. John has to remember to exhale, and though he often takes great pleasure in watching the smoke, he is preoccupied. With the tingle that a fair snog leaves behind, the itch in his lips and his hips alike. It’s silly, really. Because John, though quite open to the idea of sex and all, has never personally shagged a bloke. Snogged the one, but it was crap, and this—well. This is not.

So, when he feels the need to grab up Sherlock and do whatever happens to transpire, he thinks he should resist. But his body—his body doesn’t listen. It takes matters into its own metaphoric hands, and John does not let himself stop. His hand cups the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulls those lips back onto his own and kisses him hard, hungry. A small sound escapes Sherlock’s lips and he pushes back, and the desperation of both parties is palpable.

"Never fucked a boy before, have you?" Sherlock asks breathlessly, against John’s mouth.

John shakes his head, fingers curling firmly into the coloured curls.

"Want to though," Sherlock goes on, his voice a vibration in the back of his throat. "Right now."

John nods, shuts his eyes.

"What are you waiting for?"

 


End file.
